Tedesco had a curious way of eating. He would hold his plate in his left hand and empty it with great rapidity using a fork in his right. At the same time, he would glance frequently from side to side, as if fearful that someone might be about to steal his food. Lomeli presumed it was the result of coming from a large and hungry family.
‘So, Dean,’ said Tedesco, through a full mouth, ‘your homily is prepared?’
‘It is.’
‘And it will be in Latin, I hope?’
‘It will be in Italian, Goffredo – as you well know.’
The other cardinals had broken off their private conversations and were all listening. One never knew what Tedesco might say.
‘Such a pity! If I were delivering it, I would insist on Latin.’
‘But then no one would understand it, Your Eminence. And that would be a tragedy.’
Tedesco was the only one who laughed. ‘Yes, well, I confess that my Latin is poor, but I would inflict it on you all nonetheless, simply to make a point. Because what I would try to say, in my simple peasant Latin, is this: that change almost invariably produces the opposite effect to the improvement it is intended to bring about, and that we should bear that in mind when we come to make our choice of Pope. The abandonment of Latin, for example…’ He wiped the grease from his thick lips with his napkin and inspected it. For a moment he seemed distracted, but then he resumed. ‘Look around this dining room, Dean. Observe how unconsciously, how instinctively, we have arranged ourselves according to our native languages. We Italians are here – closest to the kitchens, very sensibly. The Spanish-speakers are sitting there. The English-speakers are over towards the reception. Yet when you and I were boys, Dean, and the Tridentine Mass was still the liturgy of the entire world, the cardinals at a Conclave were able to converse with one another in Latin. But then in 1962, the liberals insisted we should get rid of a dead language in order to make communication easier, and now what do we see? They have only succeeded in making communication harder!’
‘That may be true of the narrow instance of a Conclave. The same hardly applies to the mission of the Universal Church.’
‘The Universal Church? But how can a thing be considered universal if it speaks fifty different languages? Language is vital. Because from language, over time, arises thought, and from thought arises philosophy and culture. It has been sixty years since the Second Vatican Council, but already what it means to be a Catholic in Europe is no longer the same as what it means to be a Catholic in Africa, or Asia, or South America. We have become a confederation, at best. Look around the room, Dean – look at the way language divides us over even such a simple meal as this, and tell me there is not truth in what I say.’
Lomeli refused to respond. He thought the other man’s reasoning was preposterous. But he was determined to be neutral. He was not going to be drawn into an argument. Besides, one could never tell whether Tedesco was teasing or being serious. ‘All I can say is that if those are your views, Goffredo, you will find my homily a grave disappointment.’
‘The abandonment of Latin,’ persisted Tedesco, ‘will lead eventually to the abandonment of Rome. Mark my words.’
‘Oh come now – this is too much, even for you!’
‘I am perfectly serious, Dean. Men will soon be asking openly: why Rome? They’ve already started to whisper it. There’s no rule in doctrine or Scripture that says the Pope must preside in Rome. He could set up the Throne of St Peter anywhere on earth. Our mysterious new cardinal is from the Philippines, I believe?’
‘Yes, you know he is.’
‘So now we have three cardinal-electors from that country, which has – what? – eighty-four million Catholics. In Italy we have fifty-seven million – the great majority of whom never take Communion in any case – and yet we have twenty-six cardinal-electors! You think this anomaly will continue for much longer? If you do, you are a fool.’ He threw down his napkin. ‘Now I have spoken too harshly, and I apologise. But I fear this Conclave may be our last chance to preserve our Mother the Church. Another ten years like the last ten – another Holy Father like the last one – and she will cease to exist as we know her.’
‘So in effect what you are saying is that the next Pope must be Italian.’
‘Yes, I am! Why not? We haven’t had an Italian Pope for more than forty years. There’s never been such an interregnum in all of history. We have to recover the papacy, Dean, to save the Roman Church. Surely all Italians can agree on that?’
‘We Italians might well agree on that, Your Eminence. But as we can never agree on anything else, I suspect the odds may be stacked against us. Well, now I must circulate among our colleagues. Good evening to you.’
And with that Lomeli rose, bowed to the cardinals, and went to sit on Bellini’s table.
‘We won’t ask you to tell us how much you enjoyed breaking bread with the Patriarch of Venice. Your face tells us all we need to know.’
The former Secretary of State was sitting with his praetorian guard: Sabbadin, the Archbishop of Milan; Landolfi of Turin; Dell’Acqua of Bologna; and a couple of members of the Curia – Santini, who was not only Prefect of the Congregation for Catholic Education but also Senior Cardinal-Deacon, which meant that he would be the one who proclaimed the name of the new Pope from the balcony of St Peter’s; and Cardinal Panzavecchia, who ran the Pontifical Council for Culture.
‘I will give him this, at least,’ replied Lomeli, taking another glass of wine to calm his anger. ‘He plainly has no intention of tempering his views to win votes.’
‘He never has. I rather admire him for that.’
Sabbadin, who had a reputation for cynicism, and who was the nearest Bellini had to a campaign manager, said, ‘It was shrewd of him to keep away from Rome until today. With Tedesco, less is always more. One outspoken newspaper interview could have finished him. Instead, he will do well tomorrow, I think.’
‘Define “well”,’ said Lomeli.
Sabbadin looked over at Tedesco. His head rocked slightly from side to side, like a farmer appraising a beast at market. ‘I should say he’s worth fifteen votes in the first ballot.’
‘And your man?’
Bellini covered his ears. ‘Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.’
‘Between twenty and twenty-five. Certainly ahead on the first ballot. It’s tomorrow night that the serious work will start. Somehow we have to get him to a two-thirds majority. That requires seventy-nine votes.’
A look of agony passed across Bellini’s long pale face. Lomeli thought he looked more than ever like a martyred saint. ‘Please let’s not talk of it. I won’t utter a word of entreaty to win even one vote. If our colleagues don’t know me by now, after all these years, there’s nothing I can say in the space of a single evening that will convince them.’
They fell silent as the nuns moved around the table, serving the main course of veal scallopini. The meat looked rubbery, the sauce congealed. If anything forces this Conclave to a swift conclusion, thought Lomeli, it will be the food. After the sisters had set down the last plate, Landolfi – who at sixty-two was the youngest present – said in his usual deferential manner, ‘You don’t have to say anything, Eminence. Naturally you must leave that to us. But if we have to tell the uncommitted what you stand for, how would you like us to answer?’
Bellini nodded towards Tedesco. ‘Tell them I stand for everything he does not. His beliefs are sincere, but they are sincere nonsense. We are never returning to the days of Latin liturgy, and priests celebrating Mass with their backs to the congregation, and families of ten children because Mamma and Papà know no better. It was an ugly, repressive time, and we should be joyful that it has passed. Tell them that I stand for respecting other faiths, and for tolerating differing views within our own Church. Tell them I believe the bishops should have greater powers and that women should play more of a role within the Curia-’